Mercy 6

“You tell me the place, and I’ll go there and wait.” She unfolded and refolded her arms, kept the rest of herself still, angled. “For you.”

She held forth her palm. The student stared into the crease.

Mendenhall waited for the cash but eyed the student. “Can you tell me a back way out of here? I really need not to be seen. Can you show me, walk with me?”

54

The student walked her to the sidewalk after they exited through a loading ramp. Various types of smokers lined the slanted concrete edges: janitors, professors, grad students, administrative assistants. The smoke collected in the still pitch of the ramp. They all seemed proud of that, that production.

One of her searchers stood on the sidewalk, his feet set wide apart, arms crisscrossed, hands on shoulders. Mendenhall was surprised that the student stayed with her, was happy for it.

She showed her the gem chip on her necklace as they neared the man. “See this? Know what it is?”

“Peridot,” she replied without looking at the stone. “My birthstone. August. It’s associated with fame, dignity, and protection.

When it’s that quality,” she waved her hand over Mendenhall’s necklace, “it most likely comes from an island off the coast of Egypt. Really rare stuff comes from meteorites.”

“Oh.” Mendenhall almost forgot about the man on the sidewalk, peered at the gem and let the student guide her by the elbow.

A cab, as promised by Schrader, slid to the curb. The man on the sidewalk called to them, “Excuse me, ladies….”

Mendenhall did not listen to his excuse for approaching. She hurried into the cab and told the driver where to go. Only after they had pulled away did she realize the student was riding with her.

“That’s the wrong direction.”

“What?” Mendenhall had to blink to make sure the young woman was really in the cab with her.

“That place is in the opposite direction. Of the beach. Of where you’re meeting Professor Schrader.”

“I’m not meeting Schrader. I needed his cash.”

The student’s stare quivered. She chewed her lower lip, red against white teeth, brimmed with youth. “Good,” she said finally.

“Where do you want to get off?”

“I thought I was going to the beach.”

“I’m sorry.” Mendenhall looked away, then back. “We’ll drop you off at the next corner.”

“No. I’ll go wherever.” The student fashioned her short hair into a spiky ponytail. “I just needed to go somewhere.”

Mendenhall offered confused concern, an ER trick. The student blew at her bangs before explaining.

“Schrader’s kind of a wank. I wish I’d thought of your move. All the way to the beach. Who wouldn’t want to go to the beach with you? You always dress like that?”

“Almost never.”

“Who are you running from?”

“More than one.”

“One what?”

“Side. Apparently.” Mendenhall eyed the student’s black skirt, white t-shirt, and blue Mary Janes. She used to dress like that in college. “What size are you?”

The idea was to make it seem as though she didn’t plan to return to Mercy. Her thin disguise might misdirect them, keep them following the cab. More likely it would only lead them to underestimate her.

The Mary Janes were fine in the cab but felt tight as she stepped onto the sidewalk. She liked the way they looked, felt insecure in the t-shirt, tried not to think too much about the skirt. She ran a little, just to shake into the clothes more, into herself. The idea was also to stay outside longer, to be away from the bay an hour more, to see what was out here. To be alone.

On the map Covey had marked a bar with a star, a place for Mendenhall. It was getting close to rush hour. Traffic was the same — thick and slow as always — but the sidewalk was intensifying, the pedestrian flow becoming more one-way, pointed, moneyed, with ties and heels and good haircuts. Happy hours were starting.

For Mendenhall and the rest of the ER, happy hour was neither happy nor an hour. It was three hours of discontent producing a full spectrum of wounds, stretching into several more hours of outright misery. You name it, said her mentor once said, and happy hour’s done it.

She took a stool at the bar corner. This was the center of the universe, a cup of space in a cluster. She felt sent, stung, a mark. The only other remaining seat was on the other side of the bar corner.

A man in a loosened tie moved into it, sliding away from his three buddies. Mendenhall could tell that he had underguessed her age.

There was a drop in his look followed by reconsideration.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she told him, motioned toward the stool.

“I think you’re lying.”

“I am lying. I don’t want you sitting by me.”

“Nasty.”

“You wanted the truth.”

The bartender brought her wine. It was the color of the blood Claiborne had drawn from her. She imagined it warm and lifted it by the stem, got set to take it away to some quiet corner. A woman emerged from the crowd, jarred her way between Mendenhall and the guy.

“Sorry I’m late.”